The Wall

That so much, that anything could have come so far
without a word to say for itself…
No wonder we fret. That wall with its frail inscription,
lichen, ethereal tracery from old downpours,
may be the only monument on the entire map
worth nodding at. A god was there, it left
its terrors propped in a stack.
Its silence sits at the table though it isn’t hungry,
smiles at the sacrament, listens to everything we say,
repeating it, though out of sync – there’s a slight delay
at all times, a deliquescent blurring effect,
like beauty, worth troubling the mortars for,
worth lying down in the ziggurat of the explosion
for. The point is to make a habit of it,
carry it on your wrist like a charm,
fork-out for the poster.